


White Noise

by ShamelessHo (EeeGee)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Depression, M/M, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 19:26:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1481221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EeeGee/pseuds/ShamelessHo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey is still trying to cope with Ian's bipolar disorder. He's not coping as well as he thought he would, but he won't give up.</p><p>Written in response to a prompt on tumblr.</p><p>Not 100% what they asked for, but probably the best I can do with the subject matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Noise

The first time hadn't been too bad. It hadn't lasted long. Mickey thought everyone had just exaggerated the "highs then lows for weeks at a time." Although, once Ian came out of it, Mickey was suddenly very aware of every little thing Ian did.

Every time Ian went to work, Mickey went with him, and got him home safe afterwards. He made sure Ian ate, started going with him on runs when he had time - which had the added benefit of sex in new places, plus Mickey hadn't felt so healthy in a long time - but most of all, Mickey watched Ian when he slept.

He watched Ian's chest rise and fall, listened to each breath even as he held his own, and more often than not fell asleep touching his fingers to Ian's wrist, counting the steady beats of his heart.

He felt like he could breathe, could swallow around the lump in his throat, if he woke up and Ian was already out of bed before him, or at least awake and receptive when Mickey would press up against him, hand gripping his hip or stroking a finger against the rifle inked onto Ian’s skin.

Some mornings he'd wake up to a warm mouth around his cock, always a distant memory of the words he’d said to Ian long ago, but no longer a lasting regret. Whenever they'd finished – Ian licking him clean, then kissing him quickly and jumping up before Mickey could reciprocate - Mickey would discover that Ian had already been for a run and that breakfast was on the table, and in his post-orgasm daze he wouldn't know whether to be happy or frightened at Ian's increase in energy.

Mickey preferred the highs. He probably shouldn't prefer anything, but at least he could get conversation from Ian on the high days, even if he didn’t really feel like he was a part of what Ian was going through, just hanging on for the ride.

And because he didn't know exactly when a low was coming, Mickey sometimes felt tense. Like a coiled spring. The more he had the feeling that Ian was almost cresting the top of the mountain, the happier he seemed, the worse Mickey’s fear that the bigger the drop would be.

Then the day came when he woke up and Ian wasn't awake yet. Mickey didn't get out of bed. He turned over and curled into Ian's side. He pressed his lips into Ian's spine, his shoulder blade. When there was no response, he whispered against Ian's skin, like he had every day for the past week, "Not today. Don't let it be today." That morning though, his optimism was gone.

He closed his eyes and slept some more, hoped that when he opened them again, Ian would be up and about.

He wasn't.

That first day, Mickey was calm. He went with the reasoning that if Ian wanted to get up, he would. That one day without food wouldn't hurt.

He kept the sun out of Ian's eyes when it shone through the windows and when the room got cold, he made sure the covers were over him. At night, he climbed in beside him, placed a tentative arm over his waist, his head against his back and listened to Ian’s heartbeat, not as steady as before. He didn’t sleep.

The next day he tried to remember how he'd seen Fiona be with Ian. Gentle. Coaxing. Bringing food, but not being forceful. He didn't leave the house that day either.

The day after that, he was still calm. Mickey talked. If someone asked him now, he’d have no idea what he was saying, just random crap, but it felt like it was important to keep talking. To let Ian hear his voice. To let him know he was there.

Day four. He lay next to Ian on the bed and closed his eyes and waited for something to happen but there was nothing. The only things he could hear were his own blood pounding in his ears and the trains going by outside. Nothing happened, nobody moved. Ian must have eaten the sandwich Mandy brought, but only when Mickey was out of the room. It felt like he was in some sort of weird piece of art.  


He needed to sleep. He figured it would come at some point. Not yet though.

On the fifth day, he had company. Fiona and Debbie. He wanted to be all of his usual bravado in the face of them, but he had no idea what his expression gave away. He filled them in before he went to work. When he got home he could hear Fiona’s voice raised in anger in his bedroom.  


He didn’t stop to think before he grabbed her arm and threw her out of the house.  


Debbie was standing in shock in the living room. She tried to explain. As he moved her towards the door, she tried to explain. Her reasoning was that Fiona had been through it before with their mom and that sometimes this was all that worked. Mickey told her he didn't give a fuck and that if they yelled at Ian again they wouldn’t be allowed back in the house.

Fiona stood on the sidewalk staring at him. She was always staring. She just didn't get it. Debbie got it, but the eldest one didn't. What did he have to do?

And besides he'd made a promise to himself that he wouldn't lose his shit with Ian, no matter what. He'd already driven him away once, he couldn't do it again.

Mickey remembered the time three years ago when Ian came looking for him, desperate, needing. His crumpled face - the day when Mickey's heart had irrevocably been lost. It was Ian's absent, bipolar mom that had been the cause of the distress and Mickey suddenly, selfishly, didn't want to have to go through that himself.

He'd help make this right. He'd fix it. Somehow. But he wouldn't lose it and he wouldn't lose Ian. Not again.

On day six, Ian had turned over to face the door. Mickey almost dropped the plate of food he was carrying in relief.

"Hey you," He knelt down by the bed and put his face by Ian's.

Ian opened his eyes, but he didn’t look at Mickey even though their eyes were level. He just stared right through him. Nothing. It was like there was nothing there.

Mickey felt the sting in his nose that always came right before tears, so he blinked fast to stop them. Then he asked if Ian was going to get up today.

For the briefest of seconds, Ian made eye contact, before he rolled over and away. Back onto the dark side of the bed.

In that moment, Mickey suddenly understood. Why they would yell. He wanted Ian to get up, to prove everyone wrong, that he wasn't sick. That he was fine. That after all they'd been through they were FINE FOR FUCK'S SAKE.

He stopped himself though, backed out of the room and ran. Out of the house. Past Mandy and his wife sitting in the living room. Down the front steps and across the street without even stopping to look first. He stopped at the first concrete pillar he came to.

Then he started punching. He hit the pillar hard, and he let out curses, louder and louder with each strike. He felt the bones shifting and crunching, the letters on his knuckles obscuring as the skin tore. He saw blood spattering on the pillar.

He didn't see his sister come running until she reached out and grabbed his arm. He didn't hear her shouting at him to stop or, when that didn’t work, calmly talking him down.

He let her move him away from the pillar, not caring about the tears now as his weight overbalanced them and they both fell to the floor. He didn’t hear what she was saying.  


The only sound was white noise.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't know all that much about bipolar disorder, and I don't plan to write much about these two in this situation, because I don't want to get it wrong.
> 
> I hope this was okay. Thank you for reading.


End file.
